


Take Me To The Show

by susurrous



Category: Deadman Wonderland, Persona 4
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Cock Rings, Crossover Pairings, Dubious Consent, Gags, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, Public Sex, in which a serial killer more or less rapes another serial killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susurrous/pseuds/susurrous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genkaku knows something, because he smiles again, and it's a smile like someone just told him a secret. (Kannon? ... Izanami?) </p><p>Adachi's always known he was a voyeur. But to his personal raping of his own ethics? To the door being slammed on his homophobia and twisted, perverted into some sick desire? That's not voyeurism. That's... the fucking depths of depravity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me To The Show

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [thread](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/17479) by Mostly Harmless RPG. 



> For the Kink Meme of 2010.

It's some shitty horror flick. Adachi isn't even trying to follow the shambled plot anymore, his derision for the utterly ridiculous movie making him sinkslump into the seat. The only interesting part had been the way one girl had screamed, morbidly catching his attention and making some sort of primal stir in him...  
  
and then she had gone and gotten her head chainsawed off. Just like that, terminated so quickly: not even a chance for him to cherish (no, that was the wrong word, but he couldn't find--) or  _covet_  her hysteria.  
  
He can't help but groan in irritation when he chances a glance at his company: the six-foot-some self-proclaimed Super Monk enthralled on the screen. He still couldn't believe the man's open admission about enjoying movies (of course didn't know the motivation behind it), had sworn he wouldn't honestly believe a serial killer entertained himself with something so mundane until he saw it with his own eyes, and now that he had ... he was even less impressed with the man.   
  
It's a lonely bucket of popcorn that he eats, lacking butter and salt (oh, yes, Tohru Adachi's always been a "plain" sort of man, a sharp contrast to the one sitting next to him, who, as irony would have it, refuses to eat anything unhealthy -- something about a Buddhist concept of "healthy body; healthy mind" that actually got an apathychuckle from him). He goes to rest his chin on his palm with his elbow on the armrest when he realizes the solid mass he's leaning on is, in fact, a limb.  
  
Genkaku's limb. And much to his discomfort, this makes him look down.  
  
"Bored?" he asks, although it does not seem he's too interested in the answer, because his eyes are going elsewhere (albeit not back to the screen, and this is something of a relief).   
  
"I told you. I like suspense and mystery, not outright gore and destru-- why is your hand there."  
  
The light is dim and flickering, but he can see the sharpness of the man's smile, the silver-lighted redness of his eyes almost glowing. He isn't sure what this is supposed to indicate: the signaling rifle fire? the smoke signs of little boy lost in the forest fire? the war drum of his heart before some great native tribe's battle? Whatever it is, it's suddenly enthralling, warm and worming its way through his veins, the dangerous threat the legitimate serial killer with an inhumanly large hand on his inner thigh poses and seems to be  _rubbing_  off on him like a sick scent.  
  
It could be verification. The approval he needs, and all he had to do was suck a cock in the back of a theater?  
  
 _No_ , his mind (and stomach) rebel virulently.  _NO._  
  
But Genkaku's hot, smoke-soaked breath is suddenly pouring over on him, up the contours of his neck, brushing the shell of his ear.   
  
"I could put you in suspension, if that's what you want,  _Detective_. Maybe even mystify you." His voice is an unbelievably low baritone when it vibrates on the shell of his ear, and even as loud as the reel is clicking and playing above their heads in that back row, Genkaku is always louder than everything; his words, his mannerisms, his white-hot grip on him with fingers that are definitely not delicate and womanly.  
  
"You've yet to mystify me, Genkaku."   
  
This is someone he cannot boss around. It's someone he cannot simply shove onto a magical world in the television to solve his problems and  _take what he wants_  (although he had always wanted to try it in the theater, wondering if that inner sanctum would be any larger, more impressive, more high-def pixels of violence and horrors made sharper, clearer). This is someone he cannot take down, and that in itself -- that  _challenge_  to himself, almost makes phantom sallowyellow slide over his irises.   
  
Those thin (clean) hands go to the oppressive limb, and Genkaku's skin is so smooth his grip slides, pushing up the tattered flame-printed sleeves of his awful wardrobe, suddenly baring darker skin, splattered with ... it's hard to make the faint lines out in the dim lighting, but they're ... scars? It's hard to keep up that nervous laugh when he's suddenly captivated by the lines, by knowing the man has bled in this place (several times over, it seems). It's hard to keep up the polite facade when something inside him is  _shifting_  -- and it's not in his mind. It's in the pit of his stomach, and Adachi's own sharp self-awareness recognizes this is not fear and this is not disgust.  
  
Genkaku knows something, because he smiles again, and it's a smile like someone just told him a secret. (Kannon? ... Izanami?) He can't see it. He can only feel it, scathing against the corner of his jaw, scalding deep into his skin like it's a brand, and yet a flutter of tremor cools him to the core.  
  
There's a passing. It feels like one of those old cowboy quick-draws at high noon (and Genkaku would positively  _laugh out loud_  if Adachi had ever vocalized that visualization). The only problem is the monk actually kills with guns and Adachi ...  
  
Adachi doesn't kill. He simply ... influences.   
  
 _Calm down, Tohru_ , he warns himself, and the moment the hand leaves him, his muscles tense up with every intention to seize that moment and  _flee_ , run in terror and disgust and do something with the energy that's suddenly pent up in his mindstomachballsbody and make it right and loose again, to set it free and find something he can use to verify himself because this man won't give it to him --  
  
but the hand is back, the singularity quicker than his entire body, the physical prowess he has over him played out in full stereo.   
  
He is powerless against him.   
  
This is only made intensely clearer when the monk's robes fall open at the waist, baring more of the wide scar ripping open the normally-clean muscle lines of his chest (from Shinjiro's Persona, he recalls distantly, momentarily fascinated again). The opening filament exposes more scarring, more too-dark-to-be-Japanese skin, the lip of his too-tight leather pants only held up with a black belt that shines menacingly (enticingly) in the gloom. Subjection comes to a sharp annex when the dark red sash that had been holding closed the robes wraps around his wrists and tightens, and constricts like a snake caught its prey, looking like smear of dried-blood suicide lines in the not-light.  
  
"What are you  _doing_?" He asks in a low hiss as he tries to tug apart his sudden binds, unsure even to himself why he's whispering. It seems like a secret. It seems like a club initiation, like  _deal with us tying you up for fifteen minutes and you're fuckin' **in** , man; you are  **fucking in**_. The logical side of himself openly refutes this, but the  _magical_  side of himself, the  _childish_  side of himself ...   
  
"Takin' what I want." And Adachi never though he'd have his own motto used against him, especially not by someone so ... different than him. "You gonna scream like a bitch or can I not choke you?"   
  
Even the detective knows this is a dangerous threat. If he's this crafty with his wardrobes alone, imagining what he could use around him ...  
  
"I call for help once and what you want won't be in your reach anymore."  
  
"I guess that's my answer," Genkaku returns with that same sickle-scythe smile, and the fact it isn't on his skin this time makes Adachi suddenly hate it. He's leaning too far over the armrest by the time he's in on him, the too-large-to-accommodate man going plucking a clean row of jade prayer beads from his neck and looping them once, twice, three times around his neck like a bejeweled noose with which he might just hang him. The fourth time it comes around, all the lines are tight as saline on a fishing pole, hooking him in just the same. He gags first, the imprints pulling his cheeks back as the things come into his mouth like a bit for a horse, pressing on his tongue and tasting ... tasting, he guesses, like Genkaku. Incense and smoke and sex and darkrich blood (the only of these Adachi is intimately familiar with).  
  
That's when his tongue snakes in. His first reaction is to bite it, but the thick beads only crack on his teeth, and with the monk coming around to face him in a hover-lean with prison-muscled arms on either side of him, his tongue is free to take what it wants.  
  
Genkaku is not, after all, a liar.  
  
Saliva dribbles from his mouth from the difficulty to swallow and, like the sick man he really is, it is licked up. Somehow, this rouses those primal urges in Adachi again, if only because ... Genkaku is simply _doing._  He is not thinking, he is not calculating, he is only  _reacting_  to a stimulus, and Adachi both loathes that and wants it -- wants it around him and wants to  _be_  it. It still isn't self-loathing that scratches at the pit of his stomach, but it's ... something he's never felt before.  
  
(These are the kinds of things Genkaku heralds out of others; as much as he "longs for the other side", he pulls others violently to his own.)  
  
It's a whistling stutter when he tries to speak through the new chains, but he does manage a coherent wail of " _stop, you bas--_ ". Unfortunately this noise is cut off by another grotesque scene behind him, and the woman screaming in absolute terror makes his cock twitch inside his dress slacks -- and Genkaku is apparently either intuitive enough or close enough to notice the tinge on his face, because he starts carefully undoing his tie.   
  
It, too, is stuffed into his mouth, all around the line of beads so much that it almost slips into his throat and bumps his gag reflex, only backing off when he coughs it away in a push of air. (It's a melding of their professions inside of Adachi's mouth: the society-approved job and the normally-humane-endorsed religion, and  _how sick is that?!_ ) The man finally drops to his knees in front of him, boots kickingsmacking into the seats in front of them. Still at a loss for what to do, Adachi keeps his legs tight and taut -- until hands mercilessly spread them toofartooquick and make him groan at tricked muscles. His chest settles between the limbs so they can't close again and he reaches up, tying off the slack of the sash on his wrists to piping just above the neat row of seats.  
  
Genkaku evidently grows bored with the conversational end of the "romance", because his fingers make quick work of buttons, tearing open the man's shirt instead of the traditional methods of stripping someone. (Since when had he ever followed traditions, anyway?) It's all smooth expanses under his fingertips, the trimmed man's body all plains and no angles like his own, smaller and more refined and almost  _delicate_ , in a breakable sort of way. Adachi only recognizes how rough Genkaku's touch is, how calloused his fingers are, how they almost seem coated in black. He recalls ... they never found prints at Luke's murder site, despite everything.  
  
... So that's how it was. He cut or burned off his own fingerprints.  _Is this man insane, stupid, or ... fucking brilliant?_  A question that would likely never be answered.  
  
The rough texture is replaced with a smoother mouth, smearing nicotine grime down his chest and his abdomen, the mouth making him shift his hips and close his eyes and turn away and --  
  
His body won't obey him. He can't look away from the rough-texture tongue scathing down his body, the fingers in his belt and tuggingtakingtearing, the way -- somehow, from that angle, from above -- Genkaku's closed eyes almost look peaceful and well-rested. Like they look natural.  
  
Adachi's always known he was a voyeur. But to his personal raping of his own ethics? To the door being slammed on his homophobia and twisted,  _perverted_  into some sick desire? That's not voyeurism. That's ...  _the fucking depths of depravity._  
  
He can't help the noise that leaves his throat and gets muffled into his own tie when Genkaku's mouth comes down on him in a hard, full swing, still eagerly tugging brown slacks down his knees, the way he cranes his neck over to lick with something that seems both earnest and ... eager. It's a groan at first, sick and full of loathing, but it melts into frustration, and then something he can't quite place. Hands are raking up his too-spread thighs, touching every most inner part of him, stealing all the secrets he might have had. He is personal about his body, never letting it touched unless giving it happily to the women he cornered in electronics stores --  
  
The mouth derails that thought again, slick and warm and encompassing as it wraps around him entirely, taking him in with a slow, luxurious sort of drawl that Adachi watches in horror -- fascination.  
  
 _Genkaku is sucking me off_ , he half-spasmodically arranges in his mind between the thrill and the sickness.  _A convicted murderer ... a serial killer is sucking me off in the back of a movie theater while people are dying on the screen._  
  
Mystery and suspense he has given him, and he feels it tag at the inner pages of his own book-turned-movie. Except the mystery is how long Adachi's going to last with this new process of information, and the suspense is knowing Genkaku could take him violently over the edge at any moment (just as he had promised to "help"). He feels his own thighs thrum and twitch with energy, the smoke Genkaku's sucking out of him leaving behind nothing but the burn in his veins, all that hazard-pollution right out.  
  
It's like acid.   
  
He finally manages to rid himself of the spit-dabbled tie and it falls, landing on top of the convict's hand. He doesn't seem to notice this, but he does apparently notice the way --  
  
"You're pantin'," he comments after dragging his mouth off of him in a slow, agonizing trail, tongue having raked the soft undervein. The tie finally goes noticed when the detective doesn't respond, and he takes the thing ... and makes another noose. It wraps around his (now undeniably) hard cock twice and three times around the flat of flesh between balls and ass, making a --  
  
a ... what? What were those things called? Adachi's fog-ridden mind can't recall ...  
  
"You're pretty inexperienced, yeah? Can't have you comin' too quick on me."   
  
His only answer is a hazy groan, and the man finally closes his eyes, finally shuts off to the world around him, retreats to that inner sanctum where he feels even the veins of his Persona pulse and throb in ragelust.  
  
There's a stratum (a  _strata_ ) around them by then, a thick haze that speaks of sex and lust and brutality, the detective's pale inner thighs rubbed red and blue and purple all over. His body is no more comfortable when Genkaku stretches and bends it in the most awkward positions, making his body a craned arc (the theater's air is too cold too cold when the radiator of a body leans away), and then slips behind him. When he's twisted to face him, forced knees to sink into the confined space between the seat's cushion and the plastic of the armrest that bites into him, the sash tightens too hard from the new twist and makes him gasp in pain.  
  
The monk seems to think alleviation is simple with a stroke of his hand to his spit-slicked cock. (At gunpoint, Adachi probably still would not admit this answer is a good one.)   
  
"What are you do-- _unhhh_  -- doing to me?" The question should not have gone interrupted, but a callous had pressed so perfectly, so fittingly into the slit of his head, redhardflushed with need for touch, need for release. The salvation artist's only response to the actual question is to tug him down into his lap, tight skin to skin and skin to leather, the buckles and buttons of his rockstar pants biting and sinking into him in the most pleasantly unpleasant way he's almost never felt. Bending and folding against the man, he can feel the rigidity of muscle, the solidity of arousal, his own frailty an oceancrest in his mind where his inner self (the beloved brother, the  _Smited_  brother) is burning a red fire of ire.   
  
Adachi has always done well under pressure. Izanagi has not.  
  
And neither of them have ever done well with pain. The detective can count on one hand how many times he's had to withdraw his gun and the times he's been harmed more than a paper cut physically while On The Job. (No, all the strain, all the pain and anguish, is mental and emotional and psychological and within a cage in his mind, with his redlightning streaks and his yellowlightning eyes.)   
  
He's too busy and distracted to realize Genkaku has shimmied out of leather the leather that was sticking and clinging to his legs, the scrape along the backs of his thighs the only reminder of the redraw preparation. Adachi's hair hangs limply from humidity as he watches Genkaku's own hand wrap around himself, stroking and smearing a slickness he must have brought with him. It smells a little stringent, hits the captive in the face like a wall of reality, shaking him back to This Moment. The screen (now behind him) has gone silent and he can hear his own breathing, the rough slide of skin on sensitive skin, the _squelch_  of lubricant sliding into ridges.  
  
It's foreboding, he knows. Downright fucking ominous.   
  
"Don't scream,  _Dick._ " Genkaku's chiding voice does not help.   
  
He pours into him, and he ... sighs. Adachi scrambles and jerks against the invasion, giving a quick, full-body spasm from nape to ankles. It sears. He tears up. He  _tears_ , an unpleasant rip that isn't entirely physical. Homophobia claws violently, vengefully at his frontal lobe: a stupid, self-serving reminder of  _just how much shit he's gotten himself into._  
  
It's a strange thing to think about right in that moment, but he recalls standing in front of the mirror naked earlier that morning and discovering a pimple on his left ass cheek. He wonders if it's still there. (He hopes it pops in the monk's too-rough hands.)  
  
The beads in his mouth make a rattling slide against his teeth and into his head. Izanagi clutches claws fingers over his head, like there were ears wrapped in his iron, facetted face. His brows ruffle in further in utter discomfort. Genkaku must have decided he was being too loud, because of simply split open by beads, something ivory and sick and too big slides in, little teeth gnawing at the roof of his mouth and eyes boring holes into his tongue. The tip of the muscle tastes a crack in the cranium, and isn't that just so befitting.   
  
He muffles pleas into the skull, lost in the hollows of its head ( _no **Persona**  there, but how about your brain, Super Monk?_), echoing and ringing into silence. The murderer moves. He always moves: pushed forward by flames and smoke and violent destruction, but the only fire here is between Adachi's legs and within his mind, the only destruction that of his own rank subjugation.   
  
Finally, perhaps, he can hate Genkaku. Finally, perhaps, maybe, he can change the channel, and there can be another show in town.  
  
"The pain'll go away," his violator promises with a hiss as low as a snake's, as tawdry as a whore's. "It always goes away, even if you ain't gotta  _die._ " and when his hand slides up and wraps around his neck, Adachi gasps spit into the jade.   
  
"One pain to lessen another."  
  
Asphyxiation certainly doesn't make him stop thinking about the way he can feel Genkaku moving inside of him like too many insects as if they were seeking to gorge on the cabbage in his belly.   
  
 _Too deep too hard too much it hurts can't breathe can't speak can't move gotta move or he'll make it hurt more I hate pain I hate gays I hate this--_  
  
 **I hate goddamn slasher movies.**  
  
Adachi is overflowing, and Genkaku is flowing into him.   
  
There's a vehement gasp when the hand on his windpipe is finally relinquished, the crushing grip going back to the unpleasant jut of his hip, and he feels like his well-boned body is going to fall right out of his sack of skin. It wouldn't be the first time; it would just be the first (hopefully, hopefully  _only_ ) time anyone tried to do it with touchlickfuck.   
  
"See?"  
  
He's right. The pain has eased to a dull irritation; his muscles have stretched in accommodation, a while the burning, raw sensation is no lesser, its assuage just a little by the drip and slick of almost too much lubricant. He's obviously experienced.  
  
He was right. Adachi hates that, too.   
  
There is a rhythm to everything the monk does. When he plays jaw-grinding music, when he gives his jaw-grinding sermons, when he fucks his bone-grinding-into-marrow partners, there is music and cadence and zeal. He dives into everything with full intentions, as if smitten into the act by some great force that even he couldn't put to words (never words, just  _music_ ). He becomes enchanted in that singular act. A mere seven minutes ago, it had been a silver screen.  
  
And now it's a bruising detective, like he's a virgin canvas for a stigma-painter.   
  
There are one-hundred eight beads on a Buddhist mala. There are approximately five of those beads stretching open the flesh of Adachi's cheeks. Genkaku is confident enough in himself,  _arrogant_  enough in himself that he can get the detective to come within one-hundred three thrusts of his hips despite the tie constricting the man's blood and the filament pooling on his own abdomen.   
  
His smile is splintering the darkness: a razorwire white.   
  
The rhythm is set, a livewire connection straight from the monk's body and into the detective's. He had wanted to play with the big dogs, after all: he was getting the live stage show, he was getting to be in the audience, he was getting to go backstage.   
  
He was in the club.  
  
He was --  _enjoying_  himself. Sick and twisted, yes, but his body craned loose over a serial killer's hard body -- to prove them all wrong -- to make himself sick and high at the same time -- it was fucking enthralling. Somehow he found himself lowering greedily into the hands on his hips that tugged and pulled, that commanded how fast he moved and how hard he rocked. Somehow he found himself  _moaning_ around the skull that porously soaked up and dribbled his spit, the hungry, animated protests ringing true in the monk's ears and making him thrust  _up_  faster.  
  
There must be something Adachi does or something Adachi says that makes Genkaku hard and wanton for more, because from the open folds of his robes settled into his armpits, he withdraws a knife and cuts the sash binding skinny wrists to the pipes. It's stabbed into the cushion in the seat next to them, and Adachi looks at its impaled, mercury body in the filament in contemplation.   
  
He could stab him. He could stab him because he hates him now; he could stab him because he's fucking him now; he could stab him because he made him enjoy  _being fucked._    
  
Instead, curiously freed hands drop to the man's chest and roam their hard expanses. The gnarled scar across his breast, smooth in some places (clean cut) and kernels in others (cauterized), all under his fingertips as he roams low, low, low. (In his mind's eye, he sees Shinjiro standing opposite of Genkaku, through the bars, Castor's roaring and how much  _that mark had to have fucking hurt_ , and it makes his hips unintentionally jolt and work harder.)   
  
Genkaku finally makes a sound that is more than a sigh or release of breath. It couldn't really be called a moan, because it's too low, it's too sharp, it's too  _animalistic._  If anything, it is a growl, a guttural rumble between clenched teeth, and when Adachi thinks he's going to sigh again, he mutters a fast:  
  
" _Fuck_. "  
  
He slides forward in the seat, taking Adachi with him, pushing the small of his back into the seat in front of them, (thankfully) devoid of life. The detective's elbows brace on either sides of it, his legs wrapping somewhat more comfortably around the monk's waist and into the now open seat behind him, his head hanging backwards and almost looking at the screen over his shoulder. The movement strings the beads tighter around his throat, not as choking as hands had been, but in a congenial sort of oxygen-forswearing he imagines would equate to being a smoker.  
  
It makes him muffle another moan, but he can't --  
  
he can't stop wanting to look at Genkaku. His vision goes down, to how his muscles work to force him in, to how the monk wraps and spasms into his body, to how his mouth hangs open in a way that would normally have a joint and instead only has air and the promise for pain. The oath is fulfilled when teeth sink and pull at the skin on his chest, chewing up a hickey and spitting out sweat.   
  
Adachi has never had a hickey before. The prospect excites him into a bleary haze.   
  
He is fully converted to the Super Monk's sermons and ceremony when he's grinding low and keening, slicked with pursuit and encouragement. Genkaku's moans degenerate into hapless curses, strings of commands and statements that don't run together no matter how much of a smooth talker he really is. It's with his mouth dragging across his sternum and the man murmuring out a quick, " _Ahhh,_  fuck, Detective--!" that Adachi comes face-to-face with the realization he's being fucked by a man who doesn't even know his name.  
  
It doesn't matter. He can't care. In that moment, with his nerves on the trigger and his body strained and his mind taxed, he feels  _alive._  Genkaku's musician's hands touch and stroke and rub and put him on the summit of euphoria. Izanagi roars within his mind as his body shudders and convulses, his paperwork-soft hands clutching hard on the plastic of the seats digging into his shoulderblades, the scream his throat produces to twin and mirror his Persona's lost in the misery of the skull in his mouth.   
  
Slickness splatters the monk's abdomen and through panting breath and hazy eyes, Adachi can  _condescend_  how desperate the man looks for release, all stuck inside his own flesh and needing and wanting and pleading to get out in so many nonverbal cues that it was really kind of ... well.  
  
Pathetic.  
  
The problem arises when Genkaku doesn't  _stop_  seeking his Nirvana after the detective's body was spent and twitchingitching to get away, that his jerky thrusting hips didn't quell to a slow, that he kept taking and taking from the body above him. Adachi's too-skinny hand went to the man's hair as he groaned, again in discomfort, again in disgust. With the killer hitting too-sweet too-sensitive spots inside his body, he's throbbing low into the all new aches. Red welt hair is fisted, bleeding tendrils between fingers like a whole new trigger that was pulled and staining him all over.   
  
His teeth sink hard and rough into the beads, clacking and sliding, when the man's jerky thrusts finally reach an erratic, frenzied pace that couples his breathingmoaninggroaningcursing. There's a hand on his back, under the plastic line of the seats, blunt nails raking down the curvature of his spine, sinking into hips as he grips them to a bruising degree that Adachi is afraid might just break him for a moment. He's well aware of the man's low impulse control, after all.  
  
The holy man  _fills him_  as his boots slam and rake suddenly against the seat in front of him, and that's sick and that's twisted and somehow it's hot and slick and befitting, with the glisten of sweat shimmering out of the dark lapels of his robes and his own button-up shirt caught in tangles all over too-hot spots of his body. He thinks all of him is a rash. He thinks Genkaku has fucked a sickness into him. He's certain it's a contagious disease that's going to leave him wanting more, coming back to beg for those aliveliving feelings, the blend of hysteria and panic and ... something like  _soul._  
  
Genkaku's body slouches against his, muscles twitching, breath too hot and exhaled on his ribs. He can feel Adachi's insides moving and convulsing all around him, yanking breath violently from his lungs.   
  
There's a moment of stillness where the menacing soundtrack of the movie behindaround them booms and Adachi looks ... a little more than concerned. He knows the man's strength (great), knows the man's hesitation (low), knows the man's motivation (whim), and he is entirely too aware of his own mortality in those moments where he simply shakes from aftershocks.   
  
A hand raises up and Adachi's pulse flares again; he can see death on those fingertips, feel transience in his palm, hear the rattle shaking in his ear and his mind --  
  
But all that happens is prayer beads being pulled from him and thrown back around their owner's neck, and the partially-numbed face contorts stupidly to newold feeling flooding back in. He sucks spit back up, tries to make himself the smallest bit of composed, and finally ... relents when he realizes there's no point.  
  
The criminal isn't pulling out, he's only leaning back with a smug, satiated face and a hell-or-high-water smirk slipped across his lips. Fingers withdraw a cigarette and light up, inhaling toxicity deep and quick. The slackening radiates through his muscles immediately, and a hand lowers to his own come-splattered belly, and he smatters and smears humidity across his flushed skin.  
  
"Welcome to the crazy side of you, Detective," comes the purring rumble as Adachi swears the monk is going to start jacking himself off.  
  
Instead of be appalled, he just ...   
  
laughs.  
  
And laughs.  
  
And fucking laughs, not looking back at his rapist's face.  
  
Instead he looks back at the horror film, the plain but upside-down white-on-black, bolded text of names he'll never know, pseudo-faces he'll never see, each one with some layers stripped away, each one in need of a little ...  _push._  
  
Bitches and whores and serial killers and psychos and rapists, everyone one of them.  
  
Every one of them fools.  
  
And with Genkaku still sheathed completely in his body, groaning from the trembles the sound causes ...  
  
 _Adachi can't stop fucking **laughing.**_  
  
"They're all fools," he purrs perilously, and when his jaw rights, his eyes are blazing yellow: caution tape and creatures of darkness with little yellow eyes and that middle signal that simmers just short of brimstone.   
  
"And so are you ... Super monk."  
  
  
  
  
  
 ** _THE CREDITS ROLL._**


End file.
